


i love you, ain’t that the worst thing you ever heard?

by darlingconstellations



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), no beta we die like eddie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-01 12:34:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20815232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingconstellations/pseuds/darlingconstellations
Summary: Eddie won’t be coming home, Mrs Kaspbrak, not to you, and not to me.





	i love you, ain’t that the worst thing you ever heard?

Richie is cold. He doesn’t know if it’s the chill of the incoming night air, or if he’s finally losing it. Which, to be fair, would be a not inaccurate assessment given that he’s been sitting on his ass on the hard gravel by the Kissing Bridge for going on 5 hours now, staring at the jagged lines of the carving. R+E, E+R, Richie and Eddie, Eddie and Richie, RichieandEddie. It starts to blur a little. 

See, the thing about Derry, and all the fucked up shit with Pennywise, is that the memories that _ It _ took from him didn’t just come back in a flash. No, instead they’ve been coming back slowly, a gradual landslide into his brain until it became the veritable flood it is now. Flashes of hot summers and blood-greywater-aliengoop-slick fingers holding his as they run for their fucking lives from Niebolt. When he’d driven out to the bridge, he’d only been meaning to re-carve their initials in the old wood, some kind of _ last hurrah _ or something. He’d wanted to say goodbye, in some way. A goodbye to the kids they had been, because that was it, wasn’t it? They’d just been kids, and for some fucked up reason, the sloppy bitch of a clown had been obsessed with Bill. 

He raises his hand to the wood again, fingers trembling (_ Get it together, Trashmouth _, he thinks to himself) as he traces the second initial.

~

_ The week after they defeat the clown is the last week of summer. The air still carries some of the humid stickiness of the heat, but Richie doesn’t mind. It just reminds him of what they had accomplished together. The Losers Club. A smile begins to come across his face as he kicks away a stone at his feet. Eddie’s taking a long ass while with their ice cream cones. _

_ “Hey, Richie. If you’re waiting for your mom, you’ll be waiting for a while. She’s still in my bed.” The relief in Eddie’s voice though, is obvious to Richie. He doesn’t think either of them will get over the deep seated fear that one of them might be taken from them, by something, by It, the second the others turn away. _

_ “Eddie, Eds, my ol’ boy. You must be mistaken, as I do believe the only woman in your bed is your own mother.” He does the most ridiculous version of The British Guy. _

_ “Ugh, shut up, Trashmouth. Let’s go, the others are still waiting in the clubhouse.” Eddie hands him his cone, absent-mindedly licking at the already dripping cone in his right hand. _

_ Richie swallows around the joke he was about to reply with, and he takes the cone without complaint. His eyes focus on Eddie’s mouth, pink tongue darting out in the same hyperactive way he talks. Further down, the cast that still encased Eddie’s broken arm is shining white, except for Bev’s lipstick still scrawled over Greta’s “Loser,” none of the grime and muck of the sewers left to be seen. He thinks Eddie probably spent the last week scrubbing at the thing, desperate to get rid of the germs, fending off his mother lurking around every corner. Suddenly, it’s not funny anymore. They had nearly died. Eddie had nearly died. Maybe this is what Mrs. K feels like whenever she gets into her fits about “keeping her baby boy safe.” Richie doesn’t want to think about what it would feel like to have to live without Eddie by his side. _

_ “Th-thanks, Eds.” He mutters, and plasters a smile on his face. “Right. Race you there!” He takes off, ice cream dripping as he runs. _

_ “What? Richie, what the fuck? Come on, Richie, that’s not fair!” Eddie’s footsteps pound steadily behind him all the way down the Main Street. _

_ ~ _

_ Night has fallen by the time Richie and Eddie make it back to Eddie’s house. They walk slowly together, trying to delay the inevitable split-up where Richie would go home to his disappointed parents and Eddie would be smothered and possibly put on lockdown by Mrs. K. _

_ “-No, no, that’s disgusting Richie.” Eddie almost squeals, looking around furtively as if his mother could hear him from inside. _

_ Richie just shrugs, and continues licking the inside of his glasses lens before wiping them dry on his shirt. “What else am I supposed to use?” _

_ Eddie sighs, and unzips his fanny pack. Richie stares in disbelief as Eddie pulls out a pocket-sized bottle and proceeds to rinse Richie’s glasses with what smells like the alcohol he had used to sterilise Ben’s cut the first time they met him. Satisfied, Eddie wipes the glass panes dry with his own shirt before handing them back to Richie. _

_ “There. Not that there isn’t a whole host of bacteria still on those ugly-ass frames, Richie. I cannot believe that you really just LICKED your glasses, do you know that you’ve probably just ingested…” Eddie stops, and looks closer at Richie’s dumbstruck face. _

_ “Richie. Are… Are you okay?” _

_ There’s something in Richie’s throat. He can’t- can't process this right now. His heart is pounding, and he tries desperately to squash the warmth spreading throughout his chest. There’s something about this boy that just makes him want to laugh and cry and hug him and hold him and keep him safe for the rest of their lives. The smile is creeping up, he can feel it. Oh, no. “Don’t show it, Richie,” he thinks to himself. _

_ “Uh-” He clears his throat. “Yep. I’m fine, totally fine.” He pops the “p” obnoxiously. _

_ ~ _

_ It’s the day before Eddie’s cast is set to come off, and the Losers have gathered to deface the mostly-white surface before it gets tossed into a dumpster. Stan is currently locked in some sort of complicated arm-wrestle with Mike as they try to find the pink marker in the pile Ben had brought. _

_ “Guys, please don’t ruin my pens!” _

_ “Relax, Haystack! Your pens are fine.” _

_ “Ow-Fuck, Richie what the hell are you doing-” _

_ “Stay still, you fucker, I’m drawing your mom’s vagina-” _

_ “Boys, if you mess up my picture, I will personally castrate you both.” _

_ A silence. Eddie stops tugging his arm away from Richie and gives in. Richie readjusts to write on the other side of Bev. Richie looks up occasionally at Eddie as he writes. “His eyelashes are so long,” he thinks as his hands fumble around the marker in his hand. Shaking himself, Richie looks back down. _

_ They get into a groove, the 6 of them sat cross-legged on the floor of the clubhouse rotating around Eddie(in the hammock, because “germs and dirt and disease, Richie.”) so that most of them have covered space around Bev’s “Lo_ _Ver” with a combination of sloppily drawn arcade game characters and dicks. In one corner, the start of a conversation is seen crossed out (In Richie’s own writing, “I fucked your mom” and underneath, in Eddie’s neat print, “Fuck off, Trashmouth”). _

_ It’s quiet by the time there’s only one clear space left on the inside of the forearm. By some sort of unspoken agreement, the Losers look to Richie. He looks back. _

_ “What? Is my handsome face that captivating?” He retorts defensively. _

_ Bill coughs. “W-well, you should write the last part. S-since y-you and Ed-d-die are bes-” _

_ “Are what? Step-father and son? Yeah, Mrs. K would love my message.” There’s fear in Richie’s chest as he looks back at the rest of them. They can’t know, can they? About the fire he feels whenever Eddie does something disastrously cute, or when Eddie looks at him like that, or that he wishes Eddie would maybe hold Richie’s hand and maybe punch him in the mouth. With his mouth. _

_ Eddie huffs. “Get on with it, my mom’s gonna freak when she sees it anyway. Doesn’t matter what’s on it.” _

_ Richie nods, and swallows. He uncaps the red(red, like those short shorts that Eddie insists on wearing, his mind betrays) marker and uses his best writing. _

_ Cute, cute, cute.  _

_ “Rich-” _

_ “Eds.” _

_ “Don’t call me-” _

_ “Just. Just let me do this. Please.” The last words come out choked. Richie braces himself for what must be coming next, a punch to the face, a punch to his heart. _

_ It doesn’t come. He opens his eyes to see Eddie’s gaze fixed firmly on the words he’d written, blush rising steadily. The others have somehow disappeared in the last few seconds. Eddie opens his palm the best he can in the cast, and extends it to Richie. _

_ Suddenly out of breath, Richie’s shaky fingers reach out to meet Eddies. They both squeeze, as tight as possible, and lift their heads to make eye contact. _

_ ~ _

A choked-off sob tries to crawl out of his chest, and Richie presses the heels of his palms to his tired eyes. God, they’re almost dried up by now. But the memories don’t leave him. He sighs and braces himself on the bridge as he hauls himself up, back screaming with the effort. Maybe he _ is _old now. He sighs and brushes off his jeans and climbs back into his rental car. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket, an endless vibration as he drives back towards the townhouse. He sighs. Time to grow the fuck up again.

~

_ The night before Eddie is about to leave for college, Richie climbs the tree beside his bedroom window and almost falls off the longest branch trying to sneak in before Mrs. K can notice. Eddie notices, of course. That was the point. _

_ “OhmygodyouareinsaneRichie.” The words rush out of Eddie’s mouth as he pushes up the window to let Richie in. _

_ “That’s me, Richie “Insane Trashmouth” Tozier.” Richie whispers, conscious of the threat of discovery. Eddie looks like he’s trying to fight off a smirk. Success. _

_ “What are you doing here, you psycho? Didn’t get enough of me this afternoon at the diner?” The Losers had met up for a graduation-slash-farewell meal at Derry’s only diner, and had promptly spent four hours making absolute nuisances out of themselves, as they are wont to do. But Richie didn’t get to speak to Eddie alone, what with the antics of the group and then their collective depressive mood when they remembered that Bev had stopped calling from Portland. They didn’t want to forget each other. Richie doesn’t think that he could ever forget Eddie, though. _

_ “I. I just wanted to say goodbye properly, you know.” Richie tries to convey his seriousness, because God knows he doesn’t take himself seriously half the time, so he wouldn’t put it past Eddie to think that he’s joking. _

_ Eddie frowns. “I’ll still call, you know. We’re not leaving forever.” _

_ Richie tries to smile shakily, but he can’t seem to get there. “Eds. You know I lo-” _

_ He cuts himself off. No. He won’t go there, can’t go there. Not tonight. Tries again. “I’ll miss you, that’s all.” _

_ “Rich, you can say it. I know, okay. I love you too.” Eddie raises two hands up and cups Richie’s face, thumb brushing his cheek, then his bottom lip. _

_ Richie keeps trembling, because he knows, okay. He knows that they love each other, and they’ve tried their best to keep their relationship to empty classrooms and behind dumpsters in alleyways and sometimes the clubhouse Ben had built the summer of ‘89. But he can’t shake the fear that they’re going to drift apart, because Eddie’s going to college in New York, and Richie is going all the way across the country to LA and they won’t realise the calls have dropped from daily to weekly to monthly to once a year until they peter off. _

_ Richie ducks his head and whispers against Eddie’s neck. “Yeah, Eds, I love you.” _

_ ~ _

_ Richie is 30 years old, and he’s officially a cast member of Saturday Night Live. He has his dream job, his dream apartment, his dream life. So why did he feel so empty when his agent had asked him to come up with a draft for his own work? And why the fuck can’t he come up with anything that’s actually of substance about his childhood, which should be ripe for picking for source material? _

_ Standing outside the door to his building to shelter himself from the flurry of fresh snow, he brings out his phone, thumbing the buttons as he scrolls the contact list to find his mother’s number. She’d be able to tell him something, right? Even though they’d long since moved from Maine, his parents had stayed East Coast - now that he’s in New York, they’ve been talking about moving closer to him. He shudders at the thought. _

_ He’s almost to the bottom of the list when he sees the contact; a New York number, listed simply as “E.K.” Huh. He hadn’t thought that he’d gotten anyone’s number yet, his first day in the city. Well, whatever. Can’t be too important if he can’t remember them. He deletes the contact. _

_ “Myra, sweetie, I know, I know. Look, I’m walking fine on the ice now, the snow isn’t too bad. No. Yes, I’m wearing enough layers-Oh, shit sorry!” The guy exclaims as he crashes into Richie, his suitcase rolling right over Richie’s foot. _

_ “Fuck, that hurt! What the fuck is in there?!” Richie howls, his foot aching. _

_ The guy startles and hangs up on his - girlfriend, wife, whatever. “Uh, just. My things? Listen, I’m really sorry, man. Is your foot okay?” _

_ Richie stares at him. For some reason, his heart is about to burst out of his chest. There’s an ache at his temples. “Uh. Yeah. It’s. I’m. Fine.” _

_ “Cool. I’m, uh, gonna go then. In a rush.” _

_ Richie opens his mouth to reply, but his words die on the tip of his tongue. _

_ Eddie. _

_ He shakes his head. The name had popped up out of nowhere, but it seems to suit the other man. Whatever, Trashmouth. You don’t know him. _

_ ~ _

Richie has pulled up outside the townhouse by the time he remembers it all. He wrenches open the door and pukes all over the begonias. With slow movements, he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. _ Eddie would hate that. So unsanitary. _

He leans back in the driver’s seat, and fishes the phone back out of his pocket. 5 missed calls from Myra Kaspbrak. He stares in confusion for a second, before he realises. It’s Eddie’s phone. Somehow in the rush back out of the sewers, he’d managed to pocket Eddie’s phone. A broken laugh escapes him.

He takes a breath, then calls back. No matter what had happened in the past, she deserves to know that Eddie isn’t coming back.

Eddie won’t be coming home, Mrs Kaspbrak, not to you, and not to me.

**Author's Note:**

> Should I be studying for my final exams? Yes. Did I instead write this in one sitting as some sort of catharsis after watching Chapter 2? Also yes.
> 
> Title from Taylor Swift’s “Cruel Summer” because my emotional state right now makes me want to go back to my Swiftie phase because at least I was happy oop  

> 
> Kudos will feed me :)  
[twitter](https://twitter.com/sois_serieux)


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